Future Speed, Double Force
by A Wish On the Moon
Summary: The future is not as great as everyone thinks it is, and Bart's not willing to let things be. He's survived hundreds of timelines, but each one ends with someone dying, and he's not sure how much longer he can pretend. There's still the matter of Thad to deal with, and it's getting to be too much. (Sometimes, he has to wonder if the Speed Force really just hates its speedsters.)
1. Freckled Revelations

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any licensed characters or intellectual properties that were used in the making of this work.

* * *

Even on a good day, dealing with Impulse is like trying to shove nails into your eyes. He's too chipper, too fast, too high on _something_, — and when he finds out who gave the speedster sugar, he's gonna strangle them, _dammit_ — and won't ever slow down or _pay attention_ to what's going on.

If his name wasn't a giveaway before, — it was Ro — no, _Nightwing_ now — who named him, after all — it is now. He's too damn _impulsive_ for the kinds of missions this little teen Justice League go on, too thoughtless and whimsical and in a world of _fastfastfast_, with the occasional _ooh, shiny~_ thrown in to make him want to smack the kid upside the head.

Even he hadn't been _that_ reckless — though he doesn't really have much room to talk, all things considered; after all, his experiment was botched to begin with, and his speed is never, ever fast enough — and is never going to be. His only consolation is his spitfire-turned-tigress, but he can deal.

He's just not sure if Uncle B's grandson has it in him to _slow down_ long enough to face the consequences of his mess-ups.

Given all he knows about the speedster, — _his replacement_, he can't help but think, bitterly, — and yes, he's justified in thinking that, knowing how he's too slow and too young and how he couldn't ever be good enough for his parents, good enough for his aunt and uncle, good enough for his teammates — couldn't even get that stupid experiment _right_ —

Given what he knows, it's understandable if he gets a little confused when he sees the kid frowning when no one's looking, staring off into space with dark, dark eyes that hold so little of the determined fire that his kind are known for.

That lightning spark is so small in that yellow-gold gaze of his, so tired and dull and empty, that Wally's isn't quite sure if he's imagining something that's not there, or if he's seeing the time traveler for what he really is. And yet, whenever he tries to double-check, that glazed innocence and jubilant excitement is always, always, _always_ back.

He's not going anywhere near that can of worms, not going anywhere near that drowning resignation and sorrow, and so he pushes it to the back of his mind.

He can't help but wonder, though. The few times Impulse's caught him looking a little too closely, scrutinizing him a bit too much, the brat's always quick to change the subject of conversation, quick to make a big spectacle out of himself and distract everyone, quick to twist his concern into annoyance by-by doing something stupid or acting like even more of an idiot!

The Team's too busy yelling to see through the façade, and the kid gets to pull the 'tourist' card again and again and _again_, with no one the wiser.

Dick's probably already seen through the mask, but he doesn't act on it. Wally's not too sure how he feels about that, and he's doesn't think he wants to know, either. On the one hand, he _knows_ that none of them can really trust Bart, but on the other, he can't help but relate.

He's had downer days, too, okay?

And so, it is with this in mind that he helps in the little ways, playing along with the charades the brat insists on keeping up, pushing the speedster down and down and down every time he tries to be someone he's not, — until the day finally comes that he's no longer the time-traveling tourist or a speedster or Impulse, but Bart, just Bart, just Bart and his insecurities and his need to go fast because _he's really only four or so_ and — his newfound love of Chicken Whizees because it's _Wally _who enjoys greasy junk food way too much… his love of noise because _how else is there any proof that the world's still alive_? —

Needless to say, Bart does open up, eventually.

* * *

It's kind of depressing, the stuff Bart's told him. The nuclear winter that the earth's been in for years, the enslavement of all the people by the Reach and its stupid scarab beetles — _like Jaime's, _the kid explains_, even if it wasn't always like that._ To Bart, the future's not worth seeing — or at least the one in store for them isn't.

From what Bart's not telling him, though, Wally's pretty sure the kid's seen plenty of futures, none of them acceptable, and — and the kid's probably _lived_ through most of them, and that just makes him too sick to want to think about it too much.

He knows enough to guess that his girl's not the one Bart's been expecting, that their Superboy is nowhere near the one he's used to; the kid can bullshit with the best — or worst, depending on whose perspective they're talking about — of them, but he can't hide the unease when Wally's flirting with Artemis, or the surprise each and every time their Superboy is quick to anger, or the dissonance whenver Superman jumps at the chance to avoid responsibility.

He can't hide the surprise when he sees Zatanna — _too young, too naïve _— skipping around, or when Batman — _he's not supposed to be this nice, this caring, and where did the real Timmy go? _— shows that he cares by allowing those little hugs and games and pranks from his wards.

Wally Bat-approved wings might be showing, what with his being oh-so-observant and all, but if this kid's family, he's sort of allowed to be the overbearing brother if he wants to be.

It's not an invitation for hugs and kisses like the kid wants from him, but.— it is an understanding that Uncle Barry may die, — because that hug was all kinds of suspicious, and far too desperate to be out of _just_ being glad to see people he knows — and it is an understanding that he's expected to take up the mantle when his father figure all but disappears.

Bart assures him that now that he's saved his grandpa, there's _no way the mode can get us now, so it's all crash, dude!_ — but. Even if the future's been changed, there's no guarantee who'll live and who'll die, no guarantee that anything'll work out the way Bart expects them to.

Bart's told him enough about the future that _they_ are in danger of repeating, but that science-obsessed mind he used to put to use — before he became Kid Flash and overconfident and crazy and all kinds of messed up, before he broke up into Wally West and Kid Flash and Kid Fate, before he finally got over his identity issues enough to function with masks instead of personalities — _and wasn't that all kinds of fun?_ — knows there's something inherently wrong when he sees it.

He can see it in the kid's eyes whenever they're up to fighting Central City's Rogues, see his fear and the flicker of expectation — of what, he's not sure, but the kid has this debilitating paranoia of walking the streets instead of zipping across the asphalt and pavement that he's not sure what to make of — like he's expecting to be beat up for just being there — and Wally kind of knows the feeling, from before, before, Before.

Most would excuse it as the antsy nature of being a speedster, but…

Bart's innocent and dumb, except when he's not, and the Rogues always make him flinch. He always looks with sad, sad eyes at the Weather Wizard whenever they encounter him, and always seems so confused and worried whenever he visits the Flash Museum. His love for his 'Grandma Iris' and 'Grandpa Barry' overrides any unpleasant feelings Bart may have of staying, but more often than not he's either staying with the new Team or hanging at the apartment Wally shares with Artemis.

Nobody can say that the confusion and love aren't justified; Bart _is_ a time traveler. But, sometimes, Wally's not sure if it's all just because the kid needs a little bit of familial familiarity.

And, really, if he can get along with his supposed captor — _the one that started the whole apocalypse thing, in fact_ — Wally has never been more unsure as to what the problem is. Because if not even the end of the world worries Bart as much as this specter hanging over his head, he thinks they should know — and not just him, but all of them.

He's just not sure if Bart trusts them enough to tell.


	2. Impulsive Paranoia

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any licensed characters or intellectual properties that were used in the making of this work.

* * *

Bart Allen is a lot of things.

Impulsive, reckless, and an overall fanboy geek — _with_ a love of Chicken Whizees~! —are some of the most understood of them. That's what everyone knows, or thinks they know; he's made sure of it. Holding onto the lie is a lot easier than he thought it'd be.

Because of the whole 'secret identity' thing, what's not _as_ known is that he's a time-traveler from the future, the grandson of the second Flash Barry Allen, and the boy behind the mask of Impulse.

First impressions and theme naming seem to be a thing, 's all he's saying. Kind of comes with the territory, got it? Cool beans — wait, no, it's _totally crash_ now, right? He hates that the Interlac's changed so bad.

What only one or two other people in this era know is that he's come from a post-apocalyptic world and wants nothing more than to prevent his Grandpa Barry's death, and, in turn, stop that future of the Reach's conquest from ever happening. The _again_ doesn't matter all that much.

What nobody but him knows is that he's been changing these futures left and right for decades, and he's getting tired of waiting for the good one, the right one, the safe one — the one that never seems to come.

He's getting tired of seeing anger in place of _his_ Kon's flirty demeanor, tired of seeing the kindness where there should barely be any, of seeing the cruelty where before there was nothing but love. He keeps trying to find the fun that were his teammates, all those timelines ago, and all he sees are strangers. Even Jaime's not enough to replace them, now.

He's getting tired of always checking over his shoulder for the Thawnes that aren't there, getting tired of his fear of the Rogues, — because they had killed him, that time before, and they could so easily do it again — getting tired of waiting, waiting, waiting for Inertia to _come out, come out, wherever he is_, because, _grife_, isn't it sprocking enough that Thad's been killed, too and — the clone's probably still alive, somewhere, just waiting to get his hands on him, and —

* * *

He misses the timeline where they'd nearly gotten along, where he didn't need to go back to the past to change things, — not really, not with how all it had been about was his own protection from his grandfather President Thawne. Thad had nearly become a hero — or, at least, that's what Max had told him. He'd never really understood all that much…

Bart thinks it's sorta hilarious, and _so_ _not crash_, that the people here — _all dead, all dead, none of them escaped execution_ — think he does things on an impulse _now_. They should've seen him the first time around, back when he _really_ couldn't slow down enough to deal with everybody else.

Back when he still had Carol and Preston and Jolly and Eddie, and all of his other friends and family…

Still, it gets tiring, living each of these simulations through until he gets it _right_, and he's not sure what to do anymore. Last run-through he'd all but forsaken _his_ Flash — left him to rot and decay and _loseloselose_ his speed until Wally West —still willing to hero it out one more time — became the necessary death to stop the final mess.

He doesn't want this Wally to die, never wanted the third Flash to disappear, without even a body left to his name. he doesn't want to push and push and push, and keep on pretending that he isn't holding back — _no, he's killing him, killing him, forcing him out of the speed he should have —_ his hero, forcing the man to be a boy with nothing to his name…

And — this one still cares enough to want to try, is still willing to deal with his _crash_ and _mode_ and _sprocking grifes_.

* * *

He wishes his Wally — his _real_ Wally, the one from his original future — had cared enough to want to mentor him, even _if_ he'd never have had the same experience with their Max, even _if_ he'd never helped Thad or met Carol or saved Helen or —

He shakes his head, as if to clear it, before shooting some nonsense or another at his — _notrealnotreal_ — teammates. They buy his random input as usual, and he's safe from any unwanted inquiries.

It's just his dear _cousin's— wouldn't he technically be his uncle? _— understanding smile that he can't seem to ever throw off.

He's waited so long for Wally's acceptance, but — Bart knows it's not his to take, and — so he continues on with the game, for as long as it'll last. He hopes that, this time, nothing as twisted as the last run-through occurs — but, then again, that's all he can really do right now, hope and hope and pray to beings he's never heard of and never, ever, _ever_ believed in.

He can't help but think that the missions are dragging on longer, that it's getting easier and easier to pretend, that — _why isn't the initial invasion on high alert yet?!_

* * *

And, on the mission where Dick's Aqualad was to kill Tigress Number Two, he remembers why he'd given up praying so long ago.

— _blood like iron_, he'd like to say, but maybe it'd make more sense to say sprocking _fire_ like molten _gold_ —

There's _bloodbloodblood_ splattering the ground, and more than a few bodies spread across it, spinal cords ripped out and slaughtered scarab beetles laying by their sides. There's a figure hovering over them, holding another _victim _off the ground.

The rip is squelching and loud as red sprays over them both and — _fire, lightning, fasterfasterfaster, failure, death, death, not again, again, they have to die, don't they?! Don't they?!_

Lightning-yellow eyes catch Bart's own, and — together, they clash.

_Sometimes, he has to wonder if the Speed Force really just hates its speedsters._


	3. The Apocalypse, or Something Like It

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any licensed characters or intellectual properties that were used in the making of this work.

* * *

Alternate timelines and apocalyptic futures aside, Deathstroke thinks that he's capable enough of accomplishing the impossible that he can afford have his small vices. No man is perfect, healing factor and immortality serums and military experience be damned.

To him, this whole elaborate scheme with Titans East to cement his children's place in the Titans is justified. To the only other one in on his plans, — the clone speedster he plucked out of the timeline alongside Superboy Prime — he's a sentimental old fool, ridiculous and too soft.

He cut off the kid's Velocity 9 supply for the week. After a week of holding out, the boy learned to keep himself quiet enough to get it back, and keep it.

But. Slade's an ambitious man, not a stupid one. He knows when his mindfuckery and general bullshit won't cut it — especially when it's not just himself that he chooses to fight for.

And so, when the Reach invades and conquers the Earth — _in this timeline_, Inertia sneers — and leaves the world to waste away, he's willing to die a hero, even if he'll hate himself for it later. The only problem is that he'd lost the initial battle — lost his resources and his immortality and his healing factor — and needs time to recover, time to think up a strategy worthy of the Great Detective.

Time that he doesn't think he has.

* * *

Though the Titans East have long since split up, the speedster brat sticks close to him — _like a drug addict to his dealer_, he can't help but think, and is sorely disappointed. It's his own damned fault, giving children drugs to keep their powers in check — or, in the boy's case, keeping them at work.

To say he's surprised when he's proven wrong is an understatement. In ways he'll never understand, the kid reminds him of Nightwing — his first Robin, and the only one with the guts to fight him to the bitter ruin while still keeping his honor code and integrity alive.

The kid's friendship with Deathstroke should have been a count against him, but the Community of Friendly Neighborhood Superheroes love the boy too much for that.

It's a small group that he's built up — what's left of the resistance, really — but he knows they're all willing to go down with him; if not for glory, then for some god-damned retribution.

He's got the Wilkes kid and a speedster's daughter, one of the Bat's kids, Red Arrow's little girl, probably Nightwing's alien baby and Tara Markov, unbroken. He's pretty sure that Lex Luthor's on his side, along with the Bat Clan's best. The other speedsters are dead and gone, but…

"Where's the other speedster?" he can't help but ask. The clone had to come from somewhere, and though the first three Flashes are dead and gone, the new one — Impulse, they'd called him after his return from the grave — should be here.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the group, before Timothy Drake explains that the brat ran. To the past. In a time machine he built from scrap metal.

Deathstroke wants to pinch the bridge of his nose to alleviate the oncoming headache. Of course the impulsive boy would try to do alone what they've been planning for years. Of course he's probably gone and done what they were going to use their speedsters for.

It's very likely the brat went and got himself killed.

"Alright, let's just get this over with," he rasps behind clenched teeth. He sighs, before remembering that he's got wildcards on the team.

_Ah, damn it all to hell._

"And Inertia, remember; you're there to help the boy. Kill him on your own fuckin' time — but not ours. Same to you, girl; fight him _after _we fix things."

A glare's probably all he's going to get out of him. It's better than what most can expect from him — he's the reason why Deathstroke's promised himself not to take in any _more_ kids — or, at least, not have any more than he's already had with Addie.

With a signal, the ragtag group of misfits move out. Luthor and him against the main onslaught after the first three groups go out onto the battlefield, though he's hoping they can avoid that.

They need to get to the main base and blow up the power source. Hopefully the reactor blowing up will jolt the Reach enough that they can overthrow the leader, take back their country. It's worked through all the battles they've had across the mainland, after all.

A bullet here, a starbolt there, and while the security's distracted, Luthor and him are in. Inertia and the speedster's little girl — West, he thinks — are off disarming the security and boarding the alien spacecraft.

If Lex and he don't succeed, those two are their last chance at survival — well, technically the Earth's survival, somewhere, as this timeline'll be shot to hell…

* * *

_The speedsters never make it, and the Team _doesn't_ survive._

* * *

They put up a good fight, Deathstroke muses, but they've failed where it counted most. Not enough power behind their front for the main fight, not enough numbers behind their assault…

Most of the kids are being buried by the snow — those that haven't been vaporized by the blast, that is. Nuclear reactors. Really. He'd been hoping for something more than a suicide mission, but —

There's no speedsters left — not any real ones, anyway. They've only got the Velocity 9 druggie, the speedster clone, the sociopath brat with a homicidal streak and Pavlov's conditioning running through his veins.

It's not all that reassuring when the kid's got a shrapnel embedded in his legs — and he's their runner, the would-be time-traveler, ain't he? How's he going to run, now?

Not like he's one to judge. His guns are scattered and without ammo, and his Kevlar armor's been torn enough that he should cast it aside. Chainmail's stuck to his skin, and his mask's been lost somewhere in the fray.

He coughs, and it sprays blood.

* * *

He's managed to drag himself away from the battlefield enough that he can lean back against the remainder of the blown-up reactor. To hell with radiation poisoning — he's dying anyways, ain't he?

The kid forces himself to his feet and limps towards him, catching his eye with a determination and gleam shining across them. He's not sure if he really wants to know what the kid plans to do now. Probably kill him and take his drugs back.

When the kid went and put his life on the line for them, he trusted him for the moment. Now he's not too sure. He's never seen many willing to quit cold turkey, especially with a serum as strong as this one.

And then the kid has to go and prove him wrong _all over again_.

* * *

"Deathstroke."

He gives a grunt in reply. Can't speak past the blood dribbling down his chin and the blockage in his throat that seems suspiciously like the beginnings of a breakdown. It hurts. All that planning, all for nothing.

Yes, they've wiped out the base, but — reinforcements will be arriving soon, and the Reach will take back control. It's only a matter of time.

"If you'd meant to fail all along, you shouldn't have bothered building up this stupid team of yours. They didn't get much done."

Ah, the damned brat. He chuckles a little at that. So like the kid he'd knee-capped all those years back, so like the Bat's latest bird — and really, _where_ does all the disrespect _come_ _from_? It's like the good guys grow it on a farm and feed it to them for breakfast, or something.

He'd worried, once. They were all gonna get themselves killed one day and — though these kids had a real death wish, it didn't mean they had to die doing a man's job. _Really_, what are the heroes _thinking_ nowadays?

He doesn't mull over it much now. It wouldn't have mattered either way.

He manages to catch the piercing gaze of the boy glaring down at him, but his sight's getting hazy around the edges, and the words are fading in and out. And , although the boy's mouth is moving, he can't hear the words.

Something about hate and loyalty and Bart Allen removing himself from this time. So what?

He snags the tail-end of the speedster brat's speech enough to understand that maybe, just maybe, there's some hope left, after all.

"— and I can get there, alone, and on my own speed. I can get there and reverse all the damage — take control of the Speed Force — destroy the Reach before they can root themselves —"

He sees the boy grin, and thinks that this one — _this one_, after _all_ these years — is the most genuine and pure smile he's ever seen on the boy's face.

"So don't die there, alright?"

Clone or not, the brat's a brat, cheeky as hell even as he vibrates out of sight and _zooms_ across the planet. He sees the after-image, feels the wind — once, twice, three times, and — then the boy's gone.

He laughs as his vision blacks out, and can't help but wonder what he's gotten into, reforming monsters and mentoring heroes. A few years back, he might've even been a little disgusted with this 'mellowing with age' thing he's got going on.

It still doesn't stop the warmth from seeping in.


	4. Blood, Sweat, and Drugs

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any licensed characters or intellectual properties that were used in the making of this work.

* * *

When Inertia arrives in the timeline Bart Allen has already set out to fix, it takes a while to get him to stop.

He can't stop running and running and running, despite all his control and training. It's difficult to stop seeing the world go by too fast, difficult to see past the streamlined pain and gnawing hunger, difficult to reverse the fluid movement of his leg muscles as they move and move and keep on moving.

It isn't until someone finally takes control of the Speed Force — _blocking the other speedsters from using it, he can't help but think of sourly —_ that he finally halts. Becomes inert, as per his namesake, he thinks, and wants to smack himself.

Assuming that the day was the day of Barry Allen's death, and Bart Allen is nearly as sentimental as Max was…

He supposes he has Bart to thank for this. He also supposes his moment of stupidity is due to Bart's genetics, as well. Only _he_ would think of such foolish things, after all.

It still takes a few weeks for him to adjust.

Everything is still blurry, colors and silhouettes seeping into his vision, and he's all but blind. Words and sounds are a static hum in his ears, and he's all but deaf, as well. He's too sensitive to touch, too numb to understand the grooves and textures he attempts to feel out, and always, always suffering from jolts racing up and down his spine.

It's as if he's in the Speed Force tunnel once more, plagued by the storms as he attempts to rid himself of Max Mercury and his student, where lightning arcs up his arms and legs, his whole body, in small bursts. His flesh burns, as if the wind's cut into him, as if the electricity's seared itself just beneath the epidermis.

He can ignore the feeling, numb himself to all sensation and perception; he's dealt with speed and President Thawne together often enough that he can distance himself from the hurt. It's the withdrawal symptoms that — _grife_ —

* * *

The first week in, his stomach chooses to cave in and consume itself. His vision is more often than not dizzying and dark, and he can't find the strength in him to move beyond getting up to eat _something_ he's managed to find every few hours or so.

Shivers rake up and down his form, and he finds himself vomiting blood. It's never food though; the body he has breaks down the energy too fast for the lack of Velocity 9 to reject it. It's always, always blood, or the fluid, or dry heaving.

This is what Bart Allen has pushed him to. He'd felt like a common drug addict shooting up in some back alley in the middle of nowhere when he'd been taking the speed drug. Now he feels like an addict without his fix, and it's — it's quite frustrating, actually.

Despite everything, he manages to adapt by the middle of the second week, and is finally able to pick himself off the street and drag himself to a shower two days later.

He can feel the grit and grime of Bart Allen's body on his — _their_ — skin as the shower water hits, the cracked layers of blood and dirt and radiation from Deathstroke's time — the disgusting, oppressing film of speed and wind and drug-induced numbness hovering over him.

He takes the time between meals and building up his strength to _thinkthinkthink_, hacking government systems and tracing Justice League calls and generally just — researching this timeline. There's not much else he can do, incapacitated as he is at the time.

The only thing he gets from all of this is that Bart's rescued his grandfather, the Reach's scarab beetles latch onto people's upper vertebrae, and he's miserable and hungry and wandering the streets homeless. That, and Bart's gotten nothing done.

* * *

A month after his arrival, Inertia becomes Impulse and tracks down the Injustice League, — and he has to wonder what's so _wrong_ with these villains, that they're so atypical and flat and tiresome — like they've been shaped by Bart and his black-and-white world and — this is _not _his Deathstroke — _where's Max in all this?!_ —

He tracks them down and learns about Black Manta and Nightwing's secret operation and the small group that form the Teen Titans. He learns about the Reach Invasion and begins to weed out the weak and do his good deed for the day, like the hero everyone knows Impulse to be — like the hero Max believed he could be — like —

He's _not_ a hero, _not_ a good guy. He's been born of hate and anger and _killkillkill_, and though he wears Impulse's colors, he's — still the Inertia that nearly let Max die, still the Kid Zoom that put Hunter Zolomon back in a wheelchair and killed Weather Wizard's spawn and tricked the Rogues into killing Bart and —

He's still killing, still laughing, still ripping up bodies and slicing up beetles and staining Bart's costume and Bart's body and Bart's name with _bloodbloodblood_. Like he told West all those years ago, they — Bart — _screamscreamscream_ like little bitches, like lambs to the slaughter, like —

He has this deeply-engrained need to draw blood, to punch and kick and bruise and fight, to feel the adrenaline of pain and madness. He's not the Joker — too methodical for that, too slowly-trained, made to think through the possibilities and outcomes and scenarios until he knew what worked and what didn't in those simulations, too —

He's not the Joker because his methods aren't for random mayhem. He has a goal, but — he doesn't care what he has to do to get to it, and that makes him no different.

It's not like he ever had a soul or conscience; clones aren't real people, after all. Just as the Martians of his time are slaves, just as the metas of his time have all chosen to go rogue — just as the clones of his time are shot down like rabid dogs —

He knows he wasn't made right, and he knows he wasn't shaped right. He doesn't need anyone telling him otherwise.

It doesn't mean Inertia is going to stop.


End file.
